


a little short of breath

by publictransit



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, bitty's shorts, dex's thighs, nursey's constant poetic inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publictransit/pseuds/publictransit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it’s not like he means to spill.<br/>He just does.<br/>He backhands his mug off the counter while illustrating (not hand-talking, illustrating) the climax of a story about a businessman in line in front of him at a Starbucks who actually lost his mind about soy milk.<br/>And it’s not like he means to spill on Dex either, although, if he had to choose between spilling on Dex or Bitty, the only other people in the kitchen, he’d probably choose Dex. Not to be an asshole or anything, just because it’s the lesser of two evils. He thinks Dex would understand.<br/>So Derek empties a mug of hot chocolate into his d-partners lap (by accident!), with a belated,<br/>“Shit, sorry!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little short of breath

**Author's Note:**

> i write too much for someone who constantly complains about never getting any writing done. no beta, just hasty typing and even hastier editing. i hope y'all enjoy~

Something about pre-season is inherently silly, okay? It’s a bunch of guys, basically alone on campus, playing hockey. In _August_.

There’s also something dumb about drinking hot chocolate when it’s ninety degrees outside, but Bitty had insisted on trying out a new recipe that came his way, and Derek never said no to chocolate.

And it’s not like he means to spill.

He just does.

He backhands his mug off the counter while illustrating (not hand-talking, _illustrating_ ) the climax of a story about a businessman in line in front of him at a Starbucks who actually lost his mind about soy milk.

And it’s not like he means to spill on Dex either, although, if he had to choose between spilling on Dex or Bitty, the only other people in the kitchen, he’d probably choose Dex. Not to be an asshole or anything, just because it’s the lesser of two evils. He thinks Dex would understand.

So Derek empties a mug of hot chocolate into his d-partners lap (by accident!), with a belated,

“Shit, sorry!”

Dex yelps, turning to stare at him with wide eyes, and then he— starts laughing?

Bitty starts laughing too, which is less shocking.

Summer has done a few things to Dex, on a visible level. He’s more freckle than not at this point, and not half as pale as usual underneath, and it makes his eyes look warmer, impossibly amber in light of his smile. There’s something a little looser in the line of his shoulders, which are a little broader than they once were. Derek wonders, if he and Dex stood back to back, would Dex be taller? Or is he just carrying himself differently?

Derek laughs late, a chuckle to hide the stunned look on his face that has nothing to do with his clumsiness.

Dex stands, and his basketball shorts are heavy with hot chocolate, and sighs, closing his eyes.

“ _Dude._ ”

“Sorry,” Derek repeats with a grimace. Bitty clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“We’re going to have to wash those,” Bitty says.

“No kidding. I’ll go back to my dorm—”

“Nonsense, there’s a perfectly good machine in the basement,” Bitty cuts Dex off. “You can borrow something of mine in the meantime.” Dex raises his eyebrows for a moment before he shrugs.

“Sure.”

“You,” Bitty punctuates this by pointing at Derek with the ladle he was using to serve hot chocolate before Derek’s met it's untimely death. “Clean up in here, and we’ll see about getting you a replacement drink.”

“And a sippy cup,” Dex chirps.

The pair of them take off up the stairs, leaving Derek with a pool of hot chocolate on linoleum floor that has seen better days, and some questions.

Mostly about Dex’s remarkably _chill_ response, and also, what action performed on a lobster boat left your biceps looking like _that_ —

Dex laughs from upstairs, a single sharp bark of laughter.

It takes about half a roll of paper towel to get all the hot chocolate off the floor. Derek stows what's left of the roll underneath the sink and grabs a glass, helping himself to some cold tap water. He hears Dex and Bitty coming back down the stairs, laughing. He turns.

Derek doesn’t realize he’s choking on his drink until a mouthful of water is in his sinuses.

In all fairness, he has every reason to be choking. _All the reasons_.

The shorts that Dex borrowed are a red pair, with a white drawstring. _American Apparel type shit_. They hit Bitty about mid-thigh.

They’re shorter than that on Dex.

“You okay?” Dex asks, still laughing, blushing high on his cheeks and smiling like he could do the sun’s job for the rest of the day.

“No,” Derek chokes out around some particularly wet coughing. “I’m clearly dying.” Or he _did_ die, and now he’s gone to the afterlife, and how he reacts to this is going to decide whether he’s in heaven or hell or something equally dramatic. Bitty gets behind him and hits him between the shoulder blades with an open palm. Derek continues to cough, because he’s not sure he remembers how to breathe right now.

He’ll get there, he just— needs a minute.

“I’m starting to think we can’t trust you with liquids of any kind, Nursey.” Dex chirps, and that’s just what Derek needs right now, chirping. He can deal with chirping, he’s good at chirping.

“Haha,” Derek replies, and he can’t think of anything else to say that isn’t, _I think you’re the reason thighs rhymes with eyes, and I’d like to substitute the former for the latter in every piece of poetry that’s ever been written._ Bitty giggles.

“Bitty didn’t think these would fit me,” Dex turns one of his legs, looking down like he’s inspecting it. It makes the fabric bunch up a little on the side, short shorts getting shorter. “I bet him they would.” Dex turns to get a mug out of the cupboard, reaching up, and Derek stares. Hockey butts are made by hockey, but they’re made _for_ moments like this.

“Who won the bet?” Derek mutters.

“I have no idea.” Bitty is also staring. Dex doesn’t seem to hear either of them. He must be looking for a very specific mug, because he just went on his tiptoes— Bitty shakes himself out of staring, takes a moment to look profoundly guilty, then looks at Derek, and it’s a neutral expression until his eyebrows go up, and he sees something there that Derek didn’t want him to. “I’m gonna go put Dex’s shorts in the washer,” and Bitty makes himself scarce before Derek can say anything at all. He has the urge to defend himself, or like, explain, or even maybe spill his fucking guts all over Bitty. Which is decidedly not chill. But Bitty’s gone.

Dex turns back to face him with two mugs in hand.

“Wanna try that hot chocolate thing again? I can show you how to hold a mug first, if you want.”

“If you’re offering,” Derek says, sitting back in his stool across the counter and folding his arms. Dex just grins.

Then, because Derek is an asshole, or a house cat, he pushes the ladle off the counter.

“ _Whoops_ ,” he says, and it’s a good thing that Derek has a lot of practice keeping a smirk on his face, because the look Dex pins him with is pulling him apart at the seams. Derek is just starting to play with the words, with how he feels like butterflies must when they get tacked inside a wooden frame with needle-sharp pins, when Dex’s eyes get a little sharper. _No, not a needle at all, a scalpel,_ Derek thinks, _this is surgery_. Or at least, it has the precision.

“Is that how it is?” Dex asks, perfectly innocuous except for something in his eyes, and something in his smile, and the way he’s put the mugs down but he’s still holding on, with his left thumb moving in circles against a chip in the handle of one.

“That’s how it is,” Derek replies, and finds himself meaning it a dangerous amount.

Dex just grins, and Derek can see the sun again, and he doesn’t want to look away, even if it’ll cost him his sight.

Then Dex turns around and squats to pick up the ladle, and Derek would swear that the edges of his vision whited out for a moment. Derek’s smirk has vanished. Derek may never smirk again. He gets in at least four startled blinks before Dex stands back up, turns back around, and leans across the counter. When his face is close enough to Derek’s that August doesn’t feel hot anymore by comparison, he mutters,

“That’s how it is.” Dex’s eyes go from Derek’s eyes to Derek’s lips and back to his eyes again. Then he drops the ladle on the counter. It clatters like something three times it's weight, and by the time Derek is done flinching away from it, Dex is halfway to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” He calls after Dex, standing before he can think about it, speaking before he can clear his throat, and cringing at how wrecked he sounds.

“To change,” Dex calls back, headed up the stairs. Derek blinks a few times before sinking back into his seat. “And Derek?” Dex calls. He stands instantly.

“Yeah?” Dex comes back to the bottom of the stairs.

“I won the bet,” and then he’s gone.

“ _Chill_.” Derek tells himself, sitting back down.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much! as always, i can be found at plastichouseplants.tumblr.com and i would love to be told about what i should write next, or how your day went.


End file.
